


We Strangers Know Each Other Now (bonus scene from "Part of the Whole Design")

by nightbloomingcereus



Series: Dreaming Spires (the Oxford-verse) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angst, Bonus Scene, M/M, Oxford, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 20:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus
Summary: This is Aziraphale's POV of the events that take place in the second half of Chapter Six of my human/academia AU, "Part of the Whole Design".  As such, it contains spoilers for Chapters 1-6, and probably won't make any sense anyway unless you've read at least up to that point.Also, this is sad.  You've been warned.  (But if you've read further in PotWD, you'll know that things will get better.)





	We Strangers Know Each Other Now (bonus scene from "Part of the Whole Design")

Aziraphale is supposed to meet Crowley at ten-thirty in the Pitt-Rivers Museum so that they can discuss "something important." Crowley had seemed agitated and disinclined to elaborate further on the phone last night. Aziraphale hopes that his shortness and irritation merely stem from the fact that he'd been forced to spend hours at the career fair last night and does not have to do with both of their unwelcome relatives being in town for the week.

He's a bit early and so has gone up to the second floor to take a turn around the weaponry exhibits ringing the balcony. He examines a case full of throwing spears and slings and bows and arrows, sighing a little at the thought that so much human ingenuity has gone into devising ways to kill and maim each other. He turns away and glances idly over the side of the balcony at the sea of glass cases below, taking a deep breath. 

Someone joins him at the railing a moment later. He glances sideways, hoping it's Crowley, and is instead unpleasantly surprised by the sight of his cousin Gabriel, who is as usual impeccably turned out in a dove-grey linen suit. Every hair on his head is, as usual, perfect. Aziraphale, who is ordinarily perfectly content with his own appearance, feels suddenly frumpy, his hair a little too frizzy, his clothing a little too worn, his waist a little too thick, his overall countenance a little too rumpled. It's an ingrained reaction to Gabriel's presence from his childhood that he's apparently still not been able to shake.

"Aziraphale," says Gabriel in his trademark jocular, broad American accent that Aziraphale personally finds to be a ridiculous affectation, "Just the man I wanted to see." 

They catch sight of the two heads at the same time. One with a distinctive swoop of flame-red hair atop a tall, lanky body, the other black and spiky, crowned with some kind of elaborate hat, on a much shorter person. The redhead is unmistakably Crowley; the other individual looks slightly familiar, but is not someone he recognizes in the way he can recognize Crowley anywhere. The two are bent closely together and appear to be conferring in hushed tones about something. As they watch, the tiny black-haired person turns, begins to walk away, turns their head to say one last thing to Crowley, and disappears. At his side, Gabriel suddenly lets out a breath and turns to face the glass case behind them, bending slightly to read the placard beneath one of the displayed swords.

"Do you know, we used to have one of these in the family. _Flammenschwert, _translation: flame-bladed sword. German, sixteenth century. I wonder what happened to our family sword?" 

"I'm sure whomever it was given to had much better use for it than we did. Killing wild animals, perhaps." 

"As if! A sword like that belongs in the hands of nobility. Aziraphale, you've gone _soft_," replies Gabriel, dismissively and a bit condescendingly. 

"Gabriel, what are you doing here?" asks Aziraphale with some irritation, trying not to feel like he is suddenly ten years old again and being mocked by his older cousins for spending all his time with his nose inside a book. 

Gabriel smiles. It's the same smug, superior smile that he remembers from his childhood. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain coldly beautiful. He starts walking down the arcade; Aziraphale scrambles a little to follow. "It's come to our attention that you've been… _fraternizing_… with that man down there. Anthony Crowley. You must be aware that he's _one of them_. A _Morningstar._ Our enemies. The people that destroyed our family. The reason why Grandmother won't speak to any of us anymore." 

"An-, Crowley's a … colleague. We work together. And what does it matter to you anyway? I don't recall you ever taking an interest in anything I did."

"Aziraphale, _Aziraphale_. _Cousin_. Of course I care, and I worry about you. We all do. I _know _you're more than just colleagues." 

"And so what if we are friends?"

"They're all the same. The Morningstars. Everything's a game to them. Everyone is just a way to get ahead for them," he says vehemently. He's getting more and more agitated, which is somewhat unusual behavior for the normally preternaturally calm and calculating Gabriel. "Everything they say, everything they do, is double-edged and cunning. Their swords are always out. They're always looking for our weak spots. They're always looking for the best way to wound." 

"Crowley's not like the rest of them," protests Aziraphale, "He doesn't even _talk_ tothe rest of his family."

"Oh, he _does_. You saw them down there, thick as thieves; that was his cousin Bee with him. Lucifer Morningstar's right hand. He's definitely using you for something. Come _on, _Aziraphale. Be realistic. What would he see in you otherwise?" 

"We're _friends. _I know it may be hard for you to believe, Gabriel, but we _are."_

"And there's this." Gabriel flicks the screen of his phone with his thumb, hands it to Aziraphale. There on the screen is a picture of Crowley, standing at a table with Morningstar logos draped all over it, next to the same woman he'd been talking to downstairs a moment ago, and two other men, one tall and pale with frightfully dark eyes, the other shorter and more powerfully built, with a fierce glower. "A family reunion. Bee, Hastur, Ligur, and your boyfriend in the dark glasses. Still think he doesn't talk to them?"

"I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation," says Aziraphale, faintly.

"Oh, Aziraphale. Don't be so naïve. I guarantee he's keeping secrets from you. If you won't think of yourself, then think of the family. If you insist on continuing to embarrass the family and spending time with _that man_, the least you could do would be to leverage your position to gain some intel about the Morningstars. It would be terribly helpful for us." 

"No! Absolutely not!" he says, outraged, "I will _not _use Anthony like that!"

"What on Earth is _wrong _with you? Grandmother would be _so_ disappointed if she heard about this. I'm telling you, Aziraphale, you'll do as you're told if you know what's good for you." 

"Gabriel…"

"We're done here. I need some fresh air. This place is so horrendously dusty, isn't it? I'm going to go for a run. You should try it sometime. You could stand to lose a stone or two." 

* * *

Aziraphale goes home even though he knows Crowley is still downstairs waiting for him. He doesn't know what he'll do if he sees Crowley right now, whether he'll kiss him (the way he's been wanting to for months now) or push him away. He knows Crowley will see his face and ask what the matter is, because Crowley has always been able to read him like a book, and he doesn't know what he'll say. He knows it's cowardly, and unfair to Crowley, but he can't face the uncertainty, so he slips out a side door and down a back staircase and leaves the museum, his head a whirl of conflicting and confusing thoughts. 

_Tell me you love me. Tell me you're not going to use me and discard me. Tell me you're not playing with my heart. Tell me what you're hiding. Don't tell me. I don't know if I can survive knowing. _

Because the thing is, Gabriel is right about something. Crowley _has_ been holding himself back in all his interactions with Aziraphale. More than once, he's caught him looking at him when he thinks Aziraphale isn't looking back, eyes shuttered behind dark glasses and hiding who knows what expression. He's been letting himself believe that it's a look of fondness behind the glasses (and in weak moments, he hopes it's more than just mere fondness, but he's convinced that's just wishful thinking.) There's often a tiny note of hesitation before he replies, like he's carefully considering his words, like perhaps he's trying to calculate how best to get what he wants. Sometimes he'll bite his lip and look away; Aziraphale wonders if it's because he's biting back boredom, or exasperation. He won't take off the glasses around Aziraphale these days, except on rare, sweet occasions when they're both drunk and sentimental. 

Gabriel's words echo in his head, as his cocoa goes cold on the table beside him and pages go unread.

_You've gone soft. He's one of them. Our enemies. He's using you. What would he see in you otherwise? He's keeping secrets from you._

_Grandmother would be so disappointed._

_Your boyfriend in the dark glasses._

He doesn't cry. He feels numb, his senses dulled. It's not like the sheer panic from years and years ago, when he learned Crowley's name in Paris and ran. It's a duller, throbbing, more persistent pain, like a low-frequency buzzing running through and through his brain.

The thing is, Paris was a long time ago. 

He had tried not to think about it in the intervening years, but flashes got through from time to time and their sharpness never dulled with age. A shaft of sunlight filtered hazy and golden through dust motes in an old bookshop. A shock of hair red as fire, a smile sharp as glass, laughter like bells. The taste of crepes and chocolate and red wine. A sudden rainstorm, a hand, warm and dry, in his. Mouth to mouth, skin to skin, breath to breath. A hand, slender, long-fingered, running along the back of his thighs. Breaths, whispers against the nape of his neck. Flushed skin, wide, wondrous eyes, a voice murmuring, _angel angel my angel_. A long, sinuous body wrapped around his, legs intertwined, a hand warm against his hip. Golden eyes, beautiful, precious, rare. Perhaps the only ones like them in all of existence. 

He tasted of wine and smelled like coffee and cedar. Hair like flame, eyes like gold, a liquid, boneless saunter. 

Everything ending in a moment of blind, piercing panic. A name on the floorboards and an oily, black, bone-deep fear.

And then it had all come back to him in a rush, sixteen years later, on a dreary, grey, dull February evening. And ever since then, it had been a constant barrage of memories from Paris mixed with the new and joyful experience of getting to know Crowley, really getting to know him, a process of weeks and months rather than a single day but just as heady, just as thrilling. 

Maybe he'd been doomed the minute their hands touched over the handle of his bag that day. Maybe he'd been a little bit in love with Crowley ever since that moment in the bookshop in Paris. Maybe Crowley feels the same way. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But had it all been just a ploy? He doesn't want to believe it of Crowley, but Gabriel's insinuations keep working their way back into his brain. Because he can't quite believe that someone like Crowley (beautiful, brilliant, passionate) would want someone like him (soft, fussy, obsessive). Even in Paris, it had seemed unreal that such a perfect, beautiful creature like Crowley would be drawn to him, but then again everything about Paris that day had seemed a bit otherworldly and magical, up until the very end, at least. He's normally not so down on himself, is in fact usually perfectly content with his appearance and happy in his quiet life, but being around Gabriel and Michael and the rest of his too-perfect family has always brought out certain insecurities. He's self-aware enough at this point in his life to recognize this fact, but knowing this does not prevent the thoughts from intruding anyway.

He barely eats (and it takes a lot to make him lose his appetite). He makes cups of tea and doesn't drink them; even the comfort of Cadbury's drinking chocolate with extra marshmallows doesn't help. He tries to sleep but only manages brief, fitful interludes plagued with indeterminate bad dreams; they are not sharp and biting nightmares, just vaguely unpleasant things suffused with an overall oppressive, gloomy feeling. 

This state of unease lasts until Saturday afternoon, when he's raised from his stupor (where he's sitting in his armchair staring at blurring words on a page in a book he can't remember picking up) by a banging on his door. He stumbles over to the window that overlooks the entranceway and looks down, and there is Crowley. His heart simultaneously jumps up into his throat and drops down into his stomach. As he watches, Crowley knocks, frantically, several more times, then seems to slump over, his forehead coming to rest on the wood of the door for a long moment. He spins around, arms outstretched, and calls out, "Aziraphale! Aziraphale, where the fuck are you?" There's a note of desperation and despair in his voice that rings out like a bell to Aziraphale's ears, where he stands unnoticed at the window. It's the voice of a man whose world is ending. It's the voice of a man who's lost his best friend. 

Something comes clear to Aziraphale at that moment. Whatever else is going on with Crowley, he's chosen Aziraphale. Whatever else they might or might not be to each other, he's declared by coming here that Aziraphale is his best friend. And he is Aziraphale's. There's no one he knows better in all the world, and he knows with a sudden surety that Crowley would never betray him.

But he also knows that's he hurt Crowley, terribly, by running away, by not trusting him and fleeing, over and over and over again. 

All he has to do is walk across the room, go down a flight of stairs, and open that door. Thirty steps at the most, but his feet seem to have frozen, his muscles locked. His hands are shaking, and his heart aches. "I love you", he whispers into the empty air of his flat. _I love you, and I've hurt you and I don't deserve you. Forgive me, my love. Forgive me. _He doesn't move, keeps staring down at the alley and the man standing in it. It's not quite running away, but it might as well be.

Below him, Crowley flings something into the street, and walks away and out of sight. He doesn't look upwards at all, doesn't see Aziraphale's pale face in the window.

He stumbles back toward his chair, falls into it, puts his head in his hands, and starts to cry. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the first half of the song lyric that "Part of the whole design" comes from: "We strangers know each other now/As part of the whole design," from Gypsy by Suzanne Vega.


End file.
